


Better than Deserved

by bansheenanigans



Series: 1001 Bottles of Realm Reborn Red [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Literally explosive grief, Multi, Multiple WOL - Freeform, Tragically following the canon, cute but sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22345756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bansheenanigans/pseuds/bansheenanigans
Summary: Having your Warrior of Light fall for Haurchefant is masochistic.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: 1001 Bottles of Realm Reborn Red [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608463
Kudos: 14





	1. Lord, and...

“Do you mind if I ask you a question, Haurchefant?” Yldegarde drawls groggily from her comfortable position under heavy quilted down. Her cheek is pressed warmly to the chest of the man in question, hair fanned out among the pillows and tickling at his jaw. 

“I’ve yet to begrudge you any, dear Yldegarde, so please. Ask away.” He smiles with his words, and the arm draped over her back is a nice, reasonable weight. Fingers trace the petals and vines creeping over her hip and thigh with practiced familiarity, no particular pattern, no sense of urgency. The hour is still painfully early, and even a head of a fortress can afford another few hours to rest before the day calls. As a researcher and honored guest, she can rise whenever she likes, but she finds she’s often awake and trailing after him anyway, finding moments to steal before heading off into the wilderness to conduct her studies. 

She yawns, blinks up at him with mismatched eyes and furrowed brow. On his part, he meets her eyes with nothing but warmth, an unmasked curiosity settling into his own gray-blue irises. 

“You’re a lord, and a Knight.”

“I am.” 

“And your father does favor you, and the nation thinks well on you, right?”

He ponders this for a moment, before his free hand reaches up to brush a lock of hair out of her face. 

“I wouldn’t presume the feelings of my entire nation. Or lower my brothers. But I suppose. What is this about?” 

She worries at her lower lip, eyes cast downward, before sighing and curling her hands around his shoulder and hip, hugging him tightly. 

“Shouldn’t you...I don’t know. Shouldn’t you be courting some fine Ishgardian lady? At the very least, an...,” she turns her eyes away, shoulders hunching towards her jaw with discomfort, “Another elezen? Not...someone like me.” 

The hand that brushed her hair aside slides fingers along her jaw, tilting her face back up to look at him. His hair is still tousled, silver catching bits of gold from the bouncing light of the fireplace, and his features are still fine. When she’d first met him, she’d thought his face sharp, stern. That was before she’d seen the corners of his mouth soften and open up in an exhalation, his eyes crinkle with a laugh or a silent agreement. He looks at her now, with that kind mouth set into a befuddled sort of frown. 

“Someone like you?” 

She colors, tucking her chin into his chest. 

“Some outcasted rabbit bitch, not fit for the cold. Some dark witch come to enthrall your house. Don’t think I haven’t heard-“ 

“Who said that about you? I will have them set straight immediately-“ he interjects, before catching himself and swallowing down the indignation at her quirked eyebrow. Letting calloused fingers hold steady and soft against the skin of her cheek. 

She presses a kiss to his collarbone before letting her face lay there, hair covering most of her face and ears pinned back tightly to her head in stress. 

“It doesn’t matter. I know well enough what Ishgard would think of me. It is your opinion that matters, and you’re very....,” she grins into his skin, and her hand reaches up to trace his jaw, “Vocal about it.” 

“Yldegarde...” he sighs.

“Mhm?” She answers, letting the veil of sleepiness roll back over her, comfortably ensconced in the man’s arms. If she curls further into his skin, the worry will slip away. If she forgets her name in his arms, she’ll be happy. And isn’t that what she wants?

“Yldegarde.” The name is firmer on his tongue now. 

She sighs, and curls her arms back to center, pushing herself up on her elbows to look him in the face. He looks somber, and pensive, and...enamored, and she doesn’t know what is worse. 

“Why is this coming up? What has happened?” 

“Nothing has happened, I just...I...,” she frowns, and her eyes turn downcast, “I am not so sure how my extended presence in your home, in your...bed, reflects on you. I would not tarnish you by causing rumors of heresy and witchcraft to fall, and if that is a possibility, should I not-“ 

Her fears are cut off as his arms curl around her back, pulling her tightly down, hipbone to hipbone, rib cage to rib cage. Her words are swallowed up in the kiss he presses to her mouth, and her spine melts, pulling her all the further into the embrace. One hand drifts to her hip, and another to the hollow between her shoulder blades, holding her steady as she shudders. 

“I love you, ardently, faithfully,” he breathes into her throat as he brushes another kiss there, the slightest graze of teeth leaving her breathless, “Devotedly. I know you, and I would exclaim your merit and honor on the harshest of battlefields. I would be your champion until the end, if you permitted me.” 

“You love me?” She can’t withhold the gasp, equal parts thrilled and terrified. She had been taking this entire affair quite seriously, quite sincerely, but...to hear it said aloud was different. It held weight. It meant...unfamiliar, uncertain futures. The sort of terror only true things bring. 

“I do.” He answers, and he doesn’t even expect to hear it back. There’s no wait in his words. No unspoken contract. 

But she pulls him into another kiss, savors the taste of it on her tongue, before murmuring into his mouth in return.

“I love you, Haurchefant. I would not fear so much if I didn’t. I would not risk my own unhappiness so brazenly if I didn’t,” the words are trapped there between their breaths, and her eyes are heavy lidded staring back into his when she pulls away inch by inch, “I would have you to myself always, if I could be so selfish. But I know I can’t.” 

The sigh reverberates in her own chest, satisfaction and longing in a single breath. The dawn is ticking closer. Soon enough he’ll be less warm flesh and soft sleeping clothes and more pressed woolen tabard and thick chain mail, harder to get a grip on. Soon enough she’ll rise lazily behind him, press a last, lingering kiss on the nape of his neck before pulling on her own winter-wear, tugging on her satchel of notes and snacks and hooking her staff over her back. Hours before they’ll see each other soft again, with wind-burnt cheeks and cold fingers peeling layers back off. Ages and nothing all at once. 

When did it become such a routine? When did it become so familiar? Months here, in Dragonstone, trying to keep her mind off of the terror of everything else, the uncertainty, a friend missing, a nation in chaos, and she’s found herself in love. Spending her nights curled under heavy quilt with a leg hooked over muscular hips, an unexpectedly sturdy arm holding her to the world even as she drifted. It hadn’t been the plan. She had not come here and requested leave to stay in the intent of bedding the Lord in charge. She certainly hadn’t planned on falling in love with the man, in a swift and warm and tender sort of way. She hadn’t. And yet. And yet. 

“Be selfish with me, for a while longer,” he soothes, and his eyes slide shut once more, a contented smile on his sharp features, “I would pity the Dravanian who intended to interrupt my scarce time with my lady.” 

She snorts, and burrows her head into the hollow between shoulder and jaw, arms pulling the quilt back over them, hand curling into his hair. 

“I can manage that, I think. You’ll find I can be quite selfish when I’ve the mind.” And with that, her eyes close again, and the world melts into nothing but the rumbling of breathing and crackle of burning log. 

“Your lady, hm?” She hums, “At least in here, it has a sweet sound.”

There’s a silence, the crackle of a log burning low. Her eyes flutter back open for a moment, staring up at him. His own are half-lidded, pondering her with a thoughtfulness. 

“Yldegarde-“ he begins, and it’s so soft and heavy that she knows what he means before he begins. Her heart drops. Something curls its way around her spine, leaden and cold. The ill-sensation is not unfamiliar, but no more reassuring than the ominous beginnings of an illness. Something aches in a way that feels like memory and hurts like apprehension. Like certain tragedy. 

“Don’t,” she whispers, and cups his face in her hands, “Don’t try to make promises. This is enough. This is safe. We can’t ask for more than this and not be tempting fate. I call to Nymeia but I fear her response, and you are beholden to Fury and tradition.”

The kiss she presses to his furrowing brow is firm and lingering. 

“I love you. I’m here, and I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s enough.” 

“Why are you so afraid?” He whispers back to her, tries to smooth away the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. 

She doesn’t know how to answer that. What cruel thing makes its bed in her belly, that sours so much sweet, she doesn’t...she can’t articulate. For once, a loss for words, and not even remotely at a good time. 

He takes her silence with a heavy heart, she can feel it in his exhale. 

“Whatever it is, whatever...omen you fear, you don’t face it alone, Yldegarde. I will be by your side, long as you desire me and long as I can still hold a sword and draw breath.”   
Something in the way he holds her tightly, making his promises, says that’s exactly what she’s afraid of. 

He drifts off, savoring their last moments of rest, but Yldegarde finds she can’t. For the first time since her stay at Dragonstone began, her mind provides nothing but nightmares and ill tiding.


	2. Less than Auspicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ul'dah tragedy miles away, Yldegarde and Co. return to Camp Dragonhead.

“If I may have...a moment alone, Lord Haurchefant?” Yldegarde manages with uncharacteristic quiet, eyes cast towards Khiiral’s current designs on the liquor cabinet of the intercessory. It would hold him, for a time, and she did not begrudge him the urge- the night’s events had left them all shaking in more ways than one, and he would be kept calm and well by M’oe and drink for some time. She, on the other hand, still felt the chill in her bones, and something deeper in her very soul, stirring in disquiet. Her ears threaten to drown out everything else with the static building under her skin, and she cannot bear the thought of wreaking more destruction than had already been wrought that night.   
Haurchefant quirks an eyebrow at her, but holds out a gloved hand nonetheless, drawing her closer and out of the intercessory, into the cold. The wind bites at the skin left uncovered by her good party dress, which was, unfortunately, much of it. The short steps to warmth and safety felt like ages to her frozen toes, the only warm flesh being the fingers clasped in Haurchefant’s. 

“‘ _Lord Haurchefant_?’” He echoes at her with a faint strain of amusement as they close the door to her own previous temporary quarters at Dragonstone, barely abandoned for a week or so. Scraps of parchment and forgotten vials still littered the small desk, caked in melted candle wax and half-burnt feather quills. A dragon fang glistening on the bedside table, the wing of a dragonfly pinned to the stone of the wall. The quilt she had been mending, with the Fortemps crest in the middle, torn from a fallen pennant, lay strewn right where she’d left it on the rickety old bed. 

“I haven’t told them how...close, we’ve been these last few moons, with my research in Coerthas, and I wouldn’t put more on their minds than already is. Today has been...trying. Terrible.” She manages, quickly releasing his hand to snatch up the warm quilt from her bed, pulling it around her shoulders and huddling close to the nest of pillows and spare blankets near the fireplace, which she lights with a quick snap. “I didn’t mean to offend you by using your proper title, but I can’t imagine my other names for you being well-timed.”   
“You didn’t.” He smiles at her, and it’s aching in its sincerity against the rawness of her chest. “I understand not adding more to your companions’ troubled minds. It is, however, your troubled mind that concerns me now.”

“It seems the moment I leave you, I am returned. Isn’t that funny? Mayhaps we’re fated to this dance, Haurchefant. You and I, in the worst of times.” She tries for a chuckle, a smile, and both crack and wither in the moment. Her face crumples, and she tucks it into her quilt-covered knees. 

Haurchefant pauses, before joining her in her shivering huddle on the floor, pulling an arm around her quaking shoulders, “What do you need of me, Yldegarde?” 

“You’ve already opened your house to us, Haurchefant. You harbor us as criminals without a thought for yourself. How could I ever ask more of you without it being a cruelty? How could I lay more at your feet?” She answers with hoarse tones, the sensation of raw emotions like knives scraping down her throat with every word. 

“That is not what I meant. What do you need of me, Yldegarde? Tell me your troubles. Let me hold them as well.” With his words, he presses a soft kiss on her forehead, a physical certainty, a promise. 

Yldegarde holds quiet, biting her lip against the torrent of words threatening to break free. A wave of scattered impressions and memories that would no doubt scar. How resigned the look in Khiiral’s eyes had been when he had been accused of the deed proper, just because he was a duskwight. The fierceness of M’oe’s teeth against the clamor, hand in hand in hand with she and Khiiral as they’d been arrested. Minfilia’s pained voice as she said goodbye in the tunnels. The confidence of Yda as she and Papalymo made their last stand, and it was a last stand, Ylde could feel that much. She knew that much. Nanamo’s smile as she had talked of how they had both changed so much since their first meeting, how dear a friend...the look in her eyes as the light left...

A ragged sob breaks the seal, and Ylde grips her hands over her mouth as they start, shaking in her quilted cocoon. To his credit, and to his merit, Haurchefant holds his position, the weight of an armored arm against her back near the only thing holding her to the earth. 

“Yda and Papalymo, I...I can't help but feel like they’re gone. And Nanamo...Three threads cut clean still bleed.” She chokes out, turning to bury her head in Haurchefant’s neck before pausing, eyeing the chain mail and sharp-edged pauldrons through blurry vision and thinking better of it. She returns her face to her knees. 

“You feel it?” He doesn’t sound skeptical of her, or doubtful, just. There, listening. It was what drew her to him in the first place. It is what made this moment possible, in a way.   
“I...I just know. I just know. Nymeia preserve us, it is a kindness and cruelty to know their end, at least. There is no waiting for them to return home. Only peace that at least they rejoin Moen. The rest…Minfilia, Y’shtola, Th-...Thancred, I…” 

She keeps her face tucked into her quilt, but feels Haurchefant’s arm lift from her back, and the pull of another blanket from the pile, before two warm arms wrap around her again, pulling her in. Her cheek rests comfortably against his collarbone, muffled by the woolen blanket that keeps it from scraping metal.

“You have so little faith in Master Waters’ capacity to survive the impossible? In the Lady Y’shtola’s iron will?” He asks, chin tucked carefully on top of her head, her ears pinned back in her stress. “I’d taken it from your own lips that they are masters of their own survival, and that’s what you admired about them.” 

“No, it’s not that, I...if anything happened to h- to them, so much...falls apart.” 

There is a silence, filled only by the faint howls of the winds outside and the soft crackling of the rekindled fireplace within. The flames roil, threatening to turn blue and out of control, before she breathes a sigh and they glow warm and docile yet again. Her limbs are finally beginning to regain their feeling, less chilled to the bone, and she stretches her legs out in front of her for a moment, frowning at the ruined ends of her nice dress. There had been a thought, when she found it, to wear it for Haurchefant on her next visit. These had not been the circumstances she’d imagined. 

“You’re afraid for him most, because he is dearer to you than a friend. Am I correct in my assumptions?” The question has a sigh to it, not of accusation or of hurt, but of an understanding. 

She has no reason to lie to him, nothing to gain from it, so she nods.

“I had...feelings for him. In a small way I perhaps still do. I...the thought of him dying in those tunnels haunts me. More because he is a friend, he has suffered enough, and I’ve precious few of those, but also... Because I could have fancied myself in love with him, once. Before. The loss of him will ache in ways I am not equipped to survive, in ways I cannot fathom yet. I am afraid for him, so, so dearly,” She shudders, and wraps her arms tight around her own ribs, trying to hold in something dark and cruel, “If he is dead...then perhaps my first love in these strange nations, these strange times, is dead, and he will have never known such a thing came from me, as I will never know how he might have taken such knowledge. And I am here in the arms of my second, mourning him without knowing true, without fairness to friends whose fates are yet unknown, and to those certain. Without fairness to you, who have treated me with something I did not think I had deserved.” 

Her words flow easily over her teeth, and it is too late when she bites them back, swallows them into her throat. Slowly, surely, she peers up to Haurchefant’s face, mostly occluded by her hair, but warm and golden in the firelight. 

“Tis’ a great tragedy, that Master Waters may have succumbed to his fate without knowing the warmth your heart held for him, Yldegarde.” The expression is somber, but not angry, and it gives her pause to see it work across Haurchefant’s features. “But I hold hope that your companions have not fallen, as should you. The Scions are strong, and full of surprises.”

“I didn’t want to upset you-“ She begins, and frowns, preparing to pull away from his grasp before realizing he has yet to move away from her. 

“You haven’t. Tis’ a tragedy, surely, and I can see that clear, for you’ve told me the truths of your heart, and I am strengthened, knowing you feel such care for me as I do you,” He smiles at her, and it is kind and sweet and it hurts, “I would be a full fool to take the fact you have felt love for another before as a threat. I would be an utter bastard, past that, to begrudge you your worry for someone you cared about out of some sort of jealousy. Do I strike you as a fool or a bastard, sweet Yldegarde?”

She can’t muffle the laugh that escapes her lips at that, even through her tears.

“No. Never, never either,” she smiles into his collarbone, wrapping her arms around his torso with ease. The warmth and feeling has returned to her limbs, but still she holds, savoring a moment of peace and clarity, “But I must voice that I worry I’m keeping you from your duties. Selfish as I am, in needing you now, other things need your hand as well. Your men need you, do they not? Your responsibilities must call. I can return to my brothers, to our companions. I will not steal more of your attention than I have.”   
Another kiss, this time to her brow, soothes the worry lines that have started to build there. 

“I will have to return soon. But not yet. If you have need of me, I will be here, with you. As long as you’ll have me and as long as I can steal,” he offers thoughtfully, curling her shivering form further to his, “Will your brothers be fine without your presence a little longer?” 

This gives her pause, and a soft smile works its way onto her lips.

“Khiiral thinks you’re too nice, and he’s suspicious. He doesn’t like you. Forgive him, he’s...he’s not had a kind time with most other Elezen. So too much longer and too few bottles in your liquor cabinet, he will likely come looking for me, certain you’ve turned villain. M’oe is...I think he needs to express some rage, so he’ll follow. We aren’t like to have much time to spend like this, especially if we needs away to the city proper soon.” 

Haurchefant considers this, and squeezes her shoulders softly, before loosening his grasp. 

“I won’t send you to the city to freeze on the way. I’m sure we have something warmer, and less likely to call so much attention.” He smiles at her, and his eyes wander to her ruined dress, before he makes a motion to untangle himself and stand, “Allow me to make sure my lady does not catch her death so soon from leaving my arms, and that your companions do not find cause to hatch some plot against me for stealing you away?” 

She sighs, but nods, pulling her stiff limbs away from his body, curling back into her quilt. 

“I would...appreciate it, Haurchefant. Thank you.”

He stands, and makes motion to the door, before a pause overcomes the silence. 

“Yldegarde.”

“Yes?”

“Do not hide your grief. You are not alone, here or elsewhere. Those who love you will want to make your pain easier to hold, and it would be wise to let them. They aren’t denying it to you, and they will not take it away, but you cannot hold it so deep inside that it festers.” And with that, he leans down, presses a last kiss to her lips, and makes his exit, leaving her to her warm cocoon and a renewed bout of tears.


	3. Pent-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sauciest chapter and also the first smut I'd written in years.

Yldegarde winces as she pulls the heavy woolen sweater over her head, fingers quickly fluttering down to assess the deep slices, carefully bandaged and mended in her side. The chirurgeons had done their best when she’d stumbled in, held aloft only by two panicking Fortemps knights. They’d found her bleeding in the snow by Stone Vigil, trying to keep a flickering flame in her fingers to cauterize the thick, deep-reaching slices into her side that an unexpected aevis had wrought. The dragon itself had been dead as doornails next to her, but that was small comfort to her, delirious with pain, or to the knights, already sensing the imminent dismay of their Lord at his valued guest’s condition. 

But the medical staff at Dragonstone were good at their job, accustomed to bringing back knights from the brink of death by cold and dragon. A delirious and disastrously stubborn black mage was little different in theory, and ultimately, once held down sufficiently and kept from swearing out a potentially destructive spell in pain and hysteria, in practice.   
Haurchefant had not been allowed admittance to her sickbed after her mending, at the insistence of her chirurgeon. He was bursting at the seams, and fit to slow her recovery, the old man had explained to her when she awoke. Supposedly, that had not stopped him from pacing and dozing intermittently in the kitchens below, waiting to hear the slightest bit of news. She’d heard him, sometimes, as she drifted in and out of unsatisfying, fitful sleep, arguing with the staff. He’d stayed there until he couldn’t, until an incident had summoned he and a battalion of his best knights out of Dragonstone and towards Snowcloak for a few days on the tail of the rumored Iceheart’s heretics.

So, in truth, she had not seen him for nearly a week, and had returned to her quarters with a terse warning to take it easy and stay indoors for another few days at the least. Between the chirurgeon’s expert work and her cheating the healing process, most of the pain was gone, leaving only a red, fresh scar, and a fragility she quite disliked. 

The door to her temporary quarters clatters as it slams open, and Haurchefant stands there in his heavy shirt, clearly quickly stripped of armor, staring at her with his eyes blown wide and wild. 

“Of all of the foolish, pigheaded, reckless, idiotic ideas-“ he begins, crossing the stones to her in swift motion. The door falls closed, thankfully shielding then from prying eyes of soldier and smothering chirurgeon alike. The rumors had already started to fly in the fortress, that the Lord had too much fondness for his Viera visitor. Though they’d done little more than share a few kisses in private, (and admittedly, some of those kisses had strayed dangerously close to more) that didn’t decrease the number of prying eyes.   
“Haurchefant, I didn’t know you’d returned.” She manages somewhat pleasantly as he looms over her, fury baked into his sharp features. 

“I made my way to the chirurgeon’s bay the moment we returned to the keep, but was told you had gone. Against orders and supposed pleading.” The last bit is held with a strain of displeasure as he holds his position, taller than her, carefully distanced. Her eyes wander to the shine of a freshly magically-healed scar, pink and shimmering, disappearing under a hastily pushed down sleeve, and she frowns.

“Did you get hurt-“ she begins, and is cut off abruptly by his smoldering frown. 

“It is nothing, and nothing like bleeding to death in the snow in dangerous, unguarded, contested territory-“ he begins anew, and grimaces when she pulls up his sleeve, revealing the uneven edges of a burn and the pattern of melted mail. Clearly taken care of quickly, but with little fuss. Little concern to appearances and smoothing flesh. 

“This isn’t nothing,” she murmurs, and her fingers drift over the scar, careful not to touch, “If you were slow in your reactions because you were worried about me, Haurchefant, I will be quite cross with you.” 

He doesn’t answer, which provides all the truth she needs. She frowns at him. He returns the expression in earnest, question and dismay boiling visibly under the surface.   
“If you musts stray far beyond the strongholds, please take a Knight with you.” He manages, though it sounds strained with the effort of not ordering a small battalion to follow her on her research jaunts for the foreseeable future. 

“I will absolutely not waste House Fortemps resources and drag a Knight with me whenever I find myself wanting to investigate a creature.” She says it with finality, but isn’t surprised when he looks ready to burst. 

“Yldegarde, please-“ he starts, but she shushes him, crossing her arms indignantly.

“I am not a fragile thing, Haurchefant! I can handle myself just fine, this was an unfortunate surprise-“ 

“Yldegarde, I-“

“And I will not be bullied into changing my mind!”

When he drops to his knees before her, hair a mess, eyes searching, begging, she’s knocked speechless and practically dumbfounded. The fury wipes away as she delicately presses her fingertips to his cheek, replaced by something raw and afraid. 

“I thought I’d lost you.” He whispers. The ache of the words tears through her cleaner than the aevis’ claws had. And when had she let that happen? When had it turned from flirtation and stolen kisses, to...whatever this was? 

She turns her fingers firm against his jaw. Leads him back to standing, until they’re chest to chest, and she can feel the shaking of his breathing against her sternum.   
“You didn’t lose me. I’m right here,” she soothes, and lets her hands hold his face as he leans into the gesture, fear worrying at his lips. He’s beautiful like this, she thinks, and then, he’s beautiful, and it stirs in her chest like a wild bird, “‘Twould take far more than an aevis getting the drop on me to tear me from this life.”

A pause, a breath, a smile. 

“From your side.” She concludes. 

The kiss is fiercer than any that had ever preceded it, and she melts into the firm grasp he acquires quickly on her back. A hand strays too far towards her side and she whines into his mouth, a shudder breaking the silence, before he startles, looking at her with eyes blown wide. 

“You didn’t hurt me, it just stings a li-“ she manages before his mouth is on her again, this time at her throat, pressing lips to her pulse and choking a gasp from her vocal cords. To her collarbone, where teeth graze and color her flesh deeper, and down, as his hands push up her chemise to her hips. 

Blue eyes beg askance, when she looks down to investigate the pause, and breathlessly she nods. Her undershirt stays, but his hands wander, and his head disappears under the thin fabric, cast in silhouette by the fireplace. He presses kisses down her sternum, nips and warm breath to sensitive skin, a cool brush of lips and fingers flitting lightly over her bandaged hip and pressing in deep to the other side. 

She’s not sure when she backed up, but she bumps her desk, clattering half its contents to the stone floor, before making the executive decision to hop on the surface and sweep the rest away. Something shatters. She’s not sure what. She doesn’t care. His hands keep roaming, and she’s half-dazed when she hears his knees hit the floor again, feels his hands hook under her knees and hoist them up over his shoulders. This time, she doesn’t bid him stand. She marvels at the picture before her like a dream. 

“May I?” He asks, and his voice is hoarse and rough and so hungry she can’t believe. She nods, and he pulls her hips forward gentle as he can, hooking thumbs in her undergarments and tugging them down her thighs with an unexpected ease. They’re dangling off one foot and she’s shaking at the exposure when he looks up at her again, hunger and begging permission in his expression. 

The first press of his tongue is so good she could weep. Maybe she does, somewhat, as her fingers quickly claw at his hair, seeking a grip she can’t manage on their earthly plane. His fingers are rough from swordplay and hard work and they’re perfect, with an ease and a most ardent exploration. And he takes his time, figuring her out. Delicate and hungry and curious, with every sweep of his tongue like a lightning bolt in her spine. 

Her back hits the desk with an audible thud, and there’s a pause in his ministrations, he looks up at her through heavy eyes. She whines, and her grip on his hair tightens, and she can swear she sees the ghost of a grin before he lowers his head in a sort of lewd, utterly holy prayer. 

Her side aches as she hooks her legs around his shoulders, keeping him locked in place. Maybe it’s selfish of her, but there are stars beginning to bloom under her eyelids as he hooks his fingers just so, tastes her with just enough intensity to make her nearly draw blood from the lip worked under her teeth. 

Something boils in her blood as she feels him moan into her, and the stars hit her so fast she’s knocked breathless. 

She yells (and that’s putting it generously, when it is almost a wail, the cry of a haunted thing) his name as the stars crash down, and her hand snatches to her mouth to catch it much too late. Her whole body shudders, and her face deepens to a rolanberry red hue as she registers how much sound can carry in the fortress, with the howling winds as less than helpful muting. 

She barely registers the fingers freed from her, or the loosening of her legs as he presses warm, wet kisses to the insides of her thighs. She hears him stand, feels a hand slide delicately under her back to pull her back to a seated position on her desk. 

The expression on his face is downright diabolical.

“I think...ah,” she manages, before the waves subside and leave her gasping, “I think...half of Coerthas...just heard me scream your name...”

“Could have been worse,” he smiles, and the way he licks his lips makes her want to cry, “Could have heard you all the way into the cathedrals.” 

She sputters at the impropriety of the statement before realizing he’s adjusted his shirt, reached into his pocket to retrieve his gloves. She glares at him with weakened eyes.  
“No.”  
“No?” He blinks, and she pushes forward, hips butting against his with a renewed force, heels crossing and locking around his thighs. 

Her fingers tangle in the laces of his shirt while her mouth grasps at his, pushing hungrily in. For his part, he meets her with fervor, tongue against teeth, pulled in for another taste. She nips at his bottom lip and he almost whines, so she does it again to coax the sound out before moving to his jaw and peppering hungry kisses into the flesh there. She hits the bottom lacing and pulls it free, open, before pushing her fingers under his undershirt, tracing over old scars and warm muscle. 

“You don’t have to-“ he manages with a groan as her thumbs brush over a fresher scar, and she pauses. Pulls back from his throat to look him in the eyes with incredulity.   
“Haurchefant Greystone, while it is absurdly gentlemanly for you to think you should just eat me out within an inch of my life and take your leave, and truly, the fact you didn’t expect anything in return is startlingly refreshing, you’re an absolute fool if you don’t think I want you right this second.” She almost growls the last words, and feels a tiny bit of satisfaction when his pupils dilate and his mouth goes slack.

When he still doesn’t move, or speak, she winces. 

“Do you want me?” she asks, softer now. Maybe she had misread. Maybe it was too much, too quickly, for all the flirtation and stolen kisses. Maybe she was too much. 

“By the Fury herself, I want you,” he breathes, and pulls her in closer, chest To chest as he plants a bite into her shoulder and listens to her gasp and shudder against him, “I just didn’t want to overstep.”

Her hands hit the waistband of his pants and hook at the laces, and it’s only then that she notices how absurdly hard he’s straining against them. A renewed vigor hits as she tears at the lacing, sneaks one hand to stroke him, and he buries his face in her shoulder to groan. 

“Don’t...don’t really want to take you on your desk, if that’s alright.” He manages in a huff, and she giggles at it. Nods into his hair. 

“Another time.” She laughs, and makes a small yelp as he grips under her thighs, hoisting her up off of the wooden surface and depositing her gently on her mattress with a laugh. She leans back into the soft down, eyeing him as he shudders, making quicker work of his own layers, throwing them to the side. Biting her lip as he shucks his boots and finishes the unlacing of his pants, before pausing, looking at her like he’s still asking permission. 

“Are you seeking appraisal, or approval?” She chuckles, hoisting herself up onto her elbows. 

“Because I approve vehemently of the idea of you under me, preferably in the next few minutes. Appraisal would have to wait.” 

He laughs back at her, and it’s a hoarse sound. 

“Perhaps I just wasn’t expecting such an enthusiastic response so soon after an injury.” 

“I’m scarred, not dead.” 

“And thank Halone for that,” he grins as a knee presses down into the mattress, and he hovers over her, assessing her hungry gaze, “Are you going to keep the chemise?”

“Are you going to take it off me yourself, or shall I?” She teases back, but lifts from elbow to balancing on her hands, making her inches from his face. 

“Are you sure we should...I don’t intend to...” he doesn’t seem to know how to phrase his question, and she infers his meaning by the wandering eye to her belly. She could have guessed, a bastard son wouldn’t terribly want to risk another. It’s sweet, in a way. 

“I’m an extremely talented black mage with connections in the arcanist and conjurer’s guilds, a fair few alchemist friends, and a very good handle on biology, Haurchefant,” she manages a laugh, planting a kiss on his jaw, “I’m at no risk. If you’re worried, there’s a simple solution-“ 

His mouth closes over hers, and his hands pull at the ribbons of her chemise, tied in a complicated knot, before grumbling. His eyes ask a question, and she nods, shivering with a bit of enthusiasm when he tears them, ripping the delicate garment down the front. He winces. 

“I’ll get you a new one.” He huffs, and his knee leans into the mattress with a creak.

“I can mend it.” She laughs, locking her fingers around his neck to pull him in. Her leg knocks into his shin, tripping him, and he sprawls on her mattress, laughing back in surprise.   
The laughter chokes out as she finishes his work for him, yanking down trouser and underthings in one go. His pupils have far overtaken the blue in his eyes as she adjusts,   
straddles his hips and hovers above him, pulling the shredded remains of her chemise up and over her head. 

“Yldegarde...” his voice rasps in the quiet, and she looks down at him with curiosity, hands still gripping thin fabric. 

“Yes, Haurchefant?” She whispers back, abandoning her chemise to the floor. When he doesn’t quite answer, she reaches, grasps him in her hand and steadies her hips, waiting. 

“I want...to make you happy.” He says it like it’s a secret, something he’s admitting. She smiles back at him, eyes crinkling with enthusiasm.   
“You do.” 

“Mm.” He manages, but doesn’t seem to know what else to say, just settles his hands lightly on her hips. 

When she sinks down, they share a groan that transforms into a keen on her part. Her arms brace in the mattress beside his head, trying desperately to keep herself steady and not shaking as she tries to get accustomed to the feeling. It had been... a while, for her, and while he’d done masterfully, it was still startling.   
She looks at him through eyes she can barely keep open, silent question burning there as she moves her hips almost imperceptibly. His mouth is slightly ajar, dazed, but he rocks with her movement. It’s enough communication to get her moving, pull herself up off of her hands to drag them down his chest, investigate some sort of rhythm. He keeps up with her, slow and steady, and his hands dig into her thighs in time. 

The first time she rises, almost frees him from her before sliding back down and quickening the pace, his hand moves from her thigh to grasp for her neck. He pulls her into a kiss, hungry and hot and heavy, tongue and teeth and needy whines. His hips jerk under her, not exactly in time, getting faster and more erratic. He’s getting close, she can tell by the frantic scrabbling of his fingers in her hair. 

“Not so fast, honey,” She murmurs into his mouth, “Dont...don’t want to be done just yet, do we?” 

“This isn’t exactly what I imagined making love to you would be like.” He admits with a rasp, hands gripping hard at her hips again. 

“Did you,” she manages with a huff, a shudder, “Did you imagine yourself on top?”

“No,” it sounds almost like a laugh that tapers off into a groan, “I had planned for a little more romance. A little more forethought.”

“Ah.”

“Did you picture it differently?”

She thinks, before managing a wicked grin, staring down at him. Her hands are planted firmly on his chest, and a finger traces circles around a nipple as she considers.   
“I had a bit of a fantasy about your strategy table, but I of course never expected it to become a reality. And anyway, I wouldn’t traumatize your knights like that.” 

There is no small amount of delight she experiences as she feels him twitch at that. They both keep moving, steady, slow, deep and careful. 

“Do you want to hear it?”

He nods, eyes glassy and mystified. 

“Mm, well,” she rocks her hips as she talks, and her hands continue to roam, nails scraping down his chest in some moments and soothing circles the next, “I liked to imagine that, late at night, you’d be up working late as usual, and I’d come in, unable to slee- ah!”

He isn’t content to let her finish him off peacefully, it seems, as a fair few fingers begin rubbing lazy but determined circles around her. 

“Go on?” He smiles, and she’s furious and turned on all at once. 

“Mmmmmmwell, I’d...I’d chat you up about work, and we’d strategize about...about getting into Dravanian territory, or...something like that, flirting as we always do when I come around to pester you, and I’d be leaning over the map, and you’d...you’d be behind me, and I’d feel you, so I’d back up, tease you, and you’d...,” She shudders, shoulders hunching forward as she doubles into herself. Her elbows are shaking with the effort of keeping her upright as he moves with her, hips rolling, fingers prodding. 

“You’d pull up my skirts and bend me right over, on the table, take me right there!” She wails as she comes again, and loses her grip, slides down to be chest to chest with him, shaking. He simply holds her close, increasing his pace. She’s starting to see stars again, behind her eyelids, and she whimpers at the crashing feeling. 

“You want me to take you from behind next time?” He whispers in her ear, and she whimpers. “I think we could work that out, maybe not on my strategy table, but...”  
His teasing is ruined by the sputtering of his last words, the hard knock of his hips against hers as he finishes. She takes no small amount of satisfaction as he pants into her hair, hands desperately curling against her back. 

They stay there, trying to catch breath and pressed skin to skin, for a while. Long enough for the fire to start burning low. She’s taken to pressing gentle kisses along his throat, an encouragement for a delightful performance. 

“Did you...did you call me ‘honey’?” He forces the words out in between huffs. She wasn’t sure her face could be more flushed, but she feels the warmth in her cheeks go hotter.  
“I...yes. I think it just slipped out.”

“I liked it.” He smiles, lazily, and nuzzles her throat. 

“Oh.” She smiles. “I could say it more often? In private.” 

He laughs, and strokes her back as he moves from under her, moving to curl her into his arms instead.   
“I’d like that. I’m not sure what term I’d like for you more, though...”

“Plenty of time to consider pet names, honey,” she falls into his embrace easily, pulling at the quilt they’d squashed to the side to cover them both, “But for the record, I am not a fan of anything along the lines of ‘bunny’. It just lacks imagination...” 

She yawns, and winces as his arm brushes her side. He frowns, and adjusts, carefully avoiding the shiny, raw red scarring under a bandage pushed askew.   
“I do wish you’d be more careful.” He sighs. 

“I wish you had more free time.” She yawns again, and tucks her face into his throat. 

“Well,” he manages with a short laugh, an exhausted sound,”It sounds like we both wish for the nearly impossible.”

“That’s what wishes are good for.” She whispers, and curls her arm over his chest under the quilt. “Do you imagine that the knights will finally have a winner for their betting pool?”   
“What?” He sounds incredulous, but curious all at once. 

“The betting pool. About when you and I would...”

“Oh, that’s just shameful.” He groans, and presses a palm to his forehead in frustration. 

“I thought it was quite funny actually. I think Severeine might have won? The short elezen with the blonde hair and dark eyes. She bet that it would take one of us pushing the other over the edge with worry. Oddly specific, that one. She’s clever, I’d promote her.” 

“I don’t even want to think about it.” Haurchefant moans and presses his face into her hair in a sort of defeat. The motion makes her laugh. 

“Stay with me awhile?” She asks into the quiet. She feels him sigh close to her ear. 

“Believe me, I’m in no hurry, but…”

“I know,” She murmurs back, and curls her arms around herself instead, “You’ve responsibility here. Things to oversee. And I’m sure, soon enough, the Scions will call me back for something…”

“And it’ll be some time before either of us gets to contemplate what this means with the benefit of conversation or repetition.” 

They both sound disappointed in themselves as they discuss the grim condition of their future potential courtship. 

“We’ll try?” She manages, with a glance up at his face. He looks pensive, and teetering on the edge of distress.

“We’ll try.” He nods, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I doubt I have it in me not to do my damnedest to.” 

“I tend to be rather stubborn and obsessive myself.” She laughs, a tired, soft sound, and tries not to consider the idea that every moment they steal is never going to be enough.


	4. Chocobo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is very short but I adore the chocobo Haurchefant gives.

“Oh, what a darling boy!” Yldegarde can’t help but croon as she sinks her fingers into the soot-black feathers of the chocobo Haurchefant has unceremoniously brought into the cathedral. 

“Do you like him?,” Haurchefant beams at her, hand settling in the small of her back as she presses her cheek to the bird’s chest, “I’ve been raising him for some time, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves him more.”

“You raised him?” She gasps with delight, and turns to look at the man with a refreshed appraisal. The bird, for its part, coos as she ruffles its feathers with a gentle hand. 

“Of course, I-,” he laughs into the kiss she pulls him into, and returns it with a grin, loosening his grip on the reins of the chocobo as it preens, “I assume you like him? I know you already have dear Amoret, and while I’d never replace him, this fine fellow has a few extra tricks up his feathers, and quite the endearing personality.” 

“How long have you been preparing this surprise? When you said you’d be cheering from the stands, I did not anticipate a prize, other than my friends and perhaps a few hours of your time.” She smiles, and smooths a lock of hair out of his face, 

“You’ll still have a fair few hours of my time if I’ve anything to say about it,” he grins back at her, with a conspiratorial sort of tone, before looking back at the bird, “Worry not how long I’ve been planning, and consider more the important things. What shall you name this valorous new companion? I do so love to hear your names for things.” 

She snorts before turning back to appraise the bird, finely groomed and dressed. He’s a lovely thing, dark as the night with the tiniest hint of dawn, and his eyes are bright as he quirks his head back at her. Her smile is slow, but she curls her arm around Haurchefant’s back in return, leaning her head on one uncomfortably chained shoulder before making a low hum in her throat. 

“I should think he deserves a name worthy of admiration, reflective of his innately wonderful qualities. I can see quite a future with this bird, you know. Many grand and wonderful adventures,” with her free hand, she sets to giving the bird scratches under his chin, which seem to please him immensely, “What do you think, Greystone?” 

Haurchefant raises an eyebrow at her for a moment, amusement playing in his eyes. 

“I had thought you were done referring to me as my surname.”

“Oh, I am,” she nods, and tilts her head at the chocobo, “I was asking him if he approves of his name. Greystone is the sort of thing you’d pass on, don’t you think? A name worthy of remembrance and namesake.” 

Haurchefant’s laugh seems to fill the Hall, perhaps attracting the harried attendant who comes to hush him and remind that the chocobo, no matter how magnificent, does not belong in the building.


End file.
